I turn at the faint shift of air behind me—
Just as a steel pipe swings at my face.
Chapter Thirty Five
Erica
The kitchen smells like roast and garlic and rosemary, warm and fragrant in a way that should feel comforting.
The roast is done. I know it’s done because I’ve checked it twice and then checked it again, as if the oven might’ve lied the first two times.
It’s sitting in there in the roasting pan, browned and glossy, little carrots tucked around it, trying to make it look neat, instead of like I was fighting for my life in someone else’s kitchen.
The potatoes are mashed and covered, the bowl warm under the lid. Maybe hard as a rock by now.
And I’m just sitting at the island, staring at the clock.
It’s well past the time Nico told me to be here. Hours past the time.
Outside, the sky has shifted from late afternoon to evening, the windows dark, the garden lights clicking on somewhere out back. The house feels bigger at night. Quieter. More expensive.
More not mine.
I try to tell myself this is normal. He’s busy. He said he might not be back by the time I got here. Someone did let me in. He has a life that doesn’t run on my schedule.
But the longer I sit here, the more awkward it feels—like I’m a guest who overstayed. Like I’m playing house in a place that isn’t mine and pretending I belong because I brought groceries and made dinner.
My phone sits on the counter, screen dark.
No texts.
No calls.
I press my lips together and stare at the oven like it’s going to tell me what to do next.
The stupid part is that I want to be mad.
I want to be annoyed that he told me to come and then disappeared.
But underneath that, there’s something sharper that I don’t want to name. A familiar coil of worry that tightens the longer the house stays quiet.
I push off the stool and stand.
Okay.
I pull the oven mitts on and step toward the stove, already deciding I’ll take the roast out and leave it on the counter with a note. Maybe he’ll want some when he—
The front door opens.
I freeze.
The sound carries through the empty house. Then keys drop onto the console table a little too hard, the clink sharp in the stillness.
Relief hits me first.
Then something else.
Because there’s shuffling. Not the normal sound of someone taking off shoes, hanging a coat. A rough drag. A grunt that doesn’t match anything casual.
